


Slow-Motion Suicide

by autoeuphoric (FreezingRayne)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fantasizing, M/M, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 08:50:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5199677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreezingRayne/pseuds/autoeuphoric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can't keep your shit together. Your shit is in ruins. </p><p>(Dirk discovers that sparring one Jake English is a little different from sparring his robots)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow-Motion Suicide

**Author's Note:**

> this is a cleaned-up, expanded version of a drabble i posted on tumblr awhile ago. thanks for shaples for the beta!

“What do you say to a few rounds?” Jake asks. His feet are planted, his balled fists pounding the air. “Nothing like a bracing bout of fisticuffs to get the blood flowing!” He’s grinning--probably going for rakish, hitting manic and slightly buck-toothed.

You roll your shoulders, crack your neck, suck in the xenon-tainted air. Your brobot has spent the last three years routinely thrashing Jake--embarrassing levels of ownage--and you’ve based its programming on your own stats and style. You’re the real deal, and original works are always better than derivative. This is going to be a fuckin’ rout.

 “Sure. Come at me.” You move into a ready stance and attempt to resist the urge to beckon Matrix-style with your leading hand.

You fail to resist the urge. You are hells of lame, but you also know your audience. Jake whoops with glee and charges.

Until now you would have bet your fine ass that you’d be more than a match for Jake English, junior adventurer and all-around goober, but over the next quarter of an hour that ass is handed to you, along with a couple more of your preconceived notions. Just all scooped-up and offered to you like a goddamn communion wafer.

Take grass. It’s springy, a delicate green cloud from a distance, and should by all accounts be a fucking vacation after the poured concrete floor of your building’s roof, but getting tossed onto it still blows. Nature: it’s a fucking lie.

Your robots are all programmed to target your weaknesses--the spots where you need the most practice. As long as you don’t fool yourself, they are fairly easy to outsmart. Low block with your left hand is flimsy? You can sure as shit predict Sawtooth is going for your left thigh.

You have not factored in how different it would be to grapple with a human partner. Humans don’t make sense; you can’t predict them with an algorithm. At least, not yet.

Jake’s style is a patchwork disaster, an exotic hybrid of martial arts techniques and the wild, showy punches of heroes in adventure films. He gasps under the strain of your blows, whoops when he gets a kick past your guard, sprays laughter when he trips over his feet and ends up on his ass. Your robots are silent and focused; Jake is overwhelming.

You can’t keep your shit together. Your shit is in ruins. His skin against yours is so smooth and hot, sheened slick with your mingling perspiration. You are pathetically fascinated by the contrasts in your coloring: your cream to Jake’s coffee-brown, your own hair downy and nearly colorless where his is dark and wiry. The sweaty, salty scent of him, the touches that fill you with the conflicting yet irresistible desires to crush yourself as close as you can get, or to run away as far as you can go.

Jake scores three solid hits while you are focused on the flex and pressure of his muscles--shoulder, chest, and stomach. The last one knocks the breath out of you, lays you out on your back where you lie dazed and still marveling at the utter lack of give in the grass underneath you. Fuck grass.

“I say, Strider! Are you alright?”

Jake’s face looms over you, eyebrows thick slashes of concern, glasses crooked, big square teeth like a curious rabbit’s.

“I’m good,” you say. He offers you a hand. You grab it and give a hard yank just before he can brace himself. He goes down with a theatrical oof! You hook your legs around his knees and roll, finally getting him into a decent hold, facedown in the grass. You twist his arm, wrenching it into a jagged crescent. Any struggling will result in dislocation, and Jake has enough experience with the brobot to know it. He goes perfectly still.

“S-Strider–.” He gasps, voice thready with shock, and your skin prickles from more than just the exertion. Your knees are pressed up to the insides of his thighs, the skin tender and shockingly warm. “I must say, that was a r-rather illegal move. Not to mention unsportsmanlike!”

“I didn’t hear anyone call timeout,” you say, hushed and vicious. The adrenaline singing through your veins makes everything--the sky, the trees, the hilltop, even Jake—seem artificial. Virtual reality. You put a little pressure on his arm and the tiny noise he makes sends a fizzling pulse of arousal into your gut. It’s not that you like causing him pain–more just the evidence that it’s you, you’re the one pushing him, trapping him, making him vulnerable. All these years spent vicariously fucking him up from thousands of miles and hundreds of years away, and now you’ve got him under you, your dick pressed to the hot curve of his ass. You’re hard in your jeans and it’s a diabolical act of will to keep from pushing against him, finding out just how well your bodies could fit together. 

“Strider,” he gasps again, and you can’t help imagining what noises he’d make if you tore those tiny fucking shorts off him, wrestled out of your own clothes, rutted against him until you left shiny slick strings of come on his skin, rolled him over and swallowed him down, made him gasp and scream and moan your name. 

“Dirk, are you quite alright? It’s just–.” Jake’s shoulders shake as he laughs nervously. “–I can’t feel my fingers.”

“Right,” you say, and let go. Your muscles are shaking and a clammy slickness has settled over your skin.

Jake stands up and laughs again, high and affected, rubbing at his shoulder. “I suppose we’ll just call that one a draw, then?” His voice is falsely bright, still thickened with lingering fear. 

“Yeah.” You hunker back down beside the fire. “We could do that.”

It’s going to be a long night.

**\--  
**   


_"You can run but you can't hide_  
_Because no one here gets out alive_  
_Find a friend in whom you can confide_  
_Julien, you're a slow-motion suicide."_

            "Julien," by Placebo  

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at quadrantconfusion


End file.
